Entitled: No Seat at the Table

by M. James Cooper

Eat your bread children.

And we do but sibling complains that she don't like the ends of freshly baked bread.

The slide-clank of the plate moving towards me, hitting my teacup; the ends now belongs to me- and a mothers silence so loud.

I wasn't hurt or mad, not really, I was mostly happy that I got to eat that day.

I would grow accustomed to people's lack of regard, their non-relevant treatment of me.

But it did not break my spirit; rather it was made strong.

In the song she says it all falls down, I say it doesn't have to.

I eat my bread, ends and all, not worrying about the so called victories that others feel bolstered by.